The Plan by John Francis Kinsella
O’Connelly left his apartment on the Right Bank, overlooking the Seine, and headed in the direction of the Marais where he was to meet with Liam Clancy, the ex-trader from whom he had bought his Dublin house. It seemed that Clancy had rebounded and landed himself a job in the City at the Irish Netherlands Bank. The young Irishman promised to be a good source, providing valuable background details for his new book.
On the pavement outside O’Connelly’s fine Parisian apartment building, he deftly sidestepped a skid of dog shit and a little further a used capote. Paris was living up to its reputation; seen from a distance it was a postcard, closer it was grubbier. Parisians got used to the inconveniences of their city, they closed their eyes to the faults, but from time to time these were brought back into focus ― especially when they stepped on a packet of their canine friends’ defecations.
As he crossed rue du Faubourg Saint Antoine, he could not help noticing the black faces; more and more Africans filled the city. He had nothing in particular against Africans, but he could not help wondering why the French government condoned the relentless flow of immigration when there were millions of former immigrants unemployed in the so-called run-down ‘cities’ that surrounded Paris intramuros. Perhaps they were unable to stem the flow.
Over the last decade the number of immigrants in city had seen a spectacularly increase, it was not unlike southern California where the Mexican and Asian populations seemed to have increased enormously during his absence. Only a couple of days early he had passed a group of small school children, not far from République, where only one could have belonged to the France of Asterix. Of course it was politically incorrect to make unwanton remarks about the increase in the number of immigrants, and as a successful writer he knew it would be suicidal to voice his opinions, as inoffensive as they were.
It was evident that over the next generation or so the population would change beyond anything his grandparents could have ever imagined as children. A few immigrants succeeded into penetrating the establishment. Even though Nicolas Sarkozy had appointed ministers issued from the immigrant population. Window dressing to O’Connelly’s mind. The vast majority of immigrants were second class citizens; like ancient Rome or Athens, cheap labour was needed for the tasks that the grass root populace refused.
He pulled himself out of his reverie as he crossed Place des Vosges. The hotel, Le Pavillon de la Reine Hotel, catered mostly for tourists seeking Parisian charm and history, normally business people booked into the usual modern hotel chains in and around the Opera district.
He entered into the courtyard through the coach doors on the north side of the square. The ivy covered hotel, though its name indicated the queen’s pavilion it had in fact never been a home to a French queen. The 17th century residence had been recently renovated and transformed into a boutique hotel attracting many stars and celebrities. The square had been built by Henri IV who never lived to see it completed; the king was assassinated in his royal coach driving through Les Halles.
Knowing the prices of the rooms, he figured Clancy must be doing well. Once inside he spotted Clancy studying the books and the biblos that decorated the elegant lobby and lounge areas.
‘Swotting up on French history?’
‘Sort of,’ replied Clancy with a wry smile.
‘How’s the hotel?’
‘Nice, the rooms are a bit small, but I like the history of the place.’
‘What are your plans?’
‘The weather is nice so I’m doing a bit of tourism. Let’s take a walk.’
‘Suits me.’
They left the hotel and strolled into the gardens in the middle of the square.
‘How’s life then Liam?’
‘Looking up. As I told you I’ve joined the Irish Netherlands in the City. I’m working with Pat Kennedy, their number two.’
‘That’s great.’
‘I’ve read your last book. I liked it.’
‘Good.’
‘Downloaded it onto my iPad.’
‘iPad?’ O’Connelly was not even aware his publisher was selling his novels in eBook format.
‘Yes, picked it up in New York a month ago.’
‘The book?’
‘No the iPad.’
‘Let’s take a coffee over there,’ said Clancy pointing to the café, Ma Bourgogne, on the corner of the square beneath the arches.
O’Connelly ordered a small strong French coffee and Clancy a café au lait.
‘Are you enjoying the house in Dublin Pat?’
‘I like it, a good place to write.’
‘I thinking of buying a place in London, a bit expensive. I suppose I should wait a while to see how things work out. By the way how’s your friend…’ he paused searching for her name.
‘Laura.’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s fine, still with the Irish Cultural Centre here in Paris.’
‘So what are you doing with Kennedy?’
Chapter 44 DESMOND CASEY
On the pavement outside O’Connelly’s fine Parisian apartment building, he deftly sidestepped a skid of dog shit and a little further a used capote. Paris was living up to its reputation; seen from a distance it was a postcard, closer it was grubbier. Parisians got used to the inconveniences of their city, they closed their eyes to the faults, but from time to time these were brought back into focus ― especially when they stepped on a packet of their canine friends’ defecations.
As he crossed rue du Faubourg Saint Antoine, he could not help noticing the black faces; more and more Africans filled the city. He had nothing in particular against Africans, but he could not help wondering why the French government condoned the relentless flow of immigration when there were millions of former immigrants unemployed in the so-called run-down ‘cities’ that surrounded Paris intramuros. Perhaps they were unable to stem the flow.
Over the last decade the number of immigrants in city had seen a spectacularly increase, it was not unlike southern California where the Mexican and Asian populations seemed to have increased enormously during his absence. Only a couple of days early he had passed a group of small school children, not far from République, where only one could have belonged to the France of Asterix. Of course it was politically incorrect to make unwanton remarks about the increase in the number of immigrants, and as a successful writer he knew it would be suicidal to voice his opinions, as inoffensive as they were.
It was evident that over the next generation or so the population would change beyond anything his grandparents could have ever imagined as children. A few immigrants succeeded into penetrating the establishment. Even though Nicolas Sarkozy had appointed ministers issued from the immigrant population. Window dressing to O’Connelly’s mind. The vast majority of immigrants were second class citizens; like ancient Rome or Athens, cheap labour was needed for the tasks that the grass root populace refused.
He pulled himself out of his reverie as he crossed Place des Vosges. The hotel, Le Pavillon de la Reine Hotel, catered mostly for tourists seeking Parisian charm and history, normally business people booked into the usual modern hotel chains in and around the Opera district.
He entered into the courtyard through the coach doors on the north side of the square. The ivy covered hotel, though its name indicated the queen’s pavilion it had in fact never been a home to a French queen. The 17th century residence had been recently renovated and transformed into a boutique hotel attracting many stars and celebrities. The square had been built by Henri IV who never lived to see it completed; the king was assassinated in his royal coach driving through Les Halles.
Knowing the prices of the rooms, he figured Clancy must be doing well. Once inside he spotted Clancy studying the books and the biblos that decorated the elegant lobby and lounge areas.
‘Swotting up on French history?’
‘Sort of,’ replied Clancy with a wry smile.
‘How’s the hotel?’
‘Nice, the rooms are a bit small, but I like the history of the place.’
‘What are your plans?’
‘The weather is nice so I’m doing a bit of tourism. Let’s take a walk.’
‘Suits me.’
They left the hotel and strolled into the gardens in the middle of the square.
‘How’s life then Liam?’
‘Looking up. As I told you I’ve joined the Irish Netherlands in the City. I’m working with Pat Kennedy, their number two.’
‘That’s great.’
‘I’ve read your last book. I liked it.’
‘Good.’
‘Downloaded it onto my iPad.’
‘iPad?’ O’Connelly was not even aware his publisher was selling his novels in eBook format.
‘Yes, picked it up in New York a month ago.’
‘The book?’
‘No the iPad.’
‘Let’s take a coffee over there,’ said Clancy pointing to the café, Ma Bourgogne, on the corner of the square beneath the arches.
O’Connelly ordered a small strong French coffee and Clancy a café au lait.
‘Are you enjoying the house in Dublin Pat?’
‘I like it, a good place to write.’
‘I thinking of buying a place in London, a bit expensive. I suppose I should wait a while to see how things work out. By the way how’s your friend…’ he paused searching for her name.
‘Laura.’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s fine, still with the Irish Cultural Centre here in Paris.’
‘So what are you doing with Kennedy?’
Chapter 44 DESMOND CASEY